


Cracked

by slendersmut



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Brainwashing, God-Worship, Guro, Just General Sexiness, Masturbation, Obedience, Other, Overstimulation, Tentacles, thoughtlessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 13:10:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slendersmut/pseuds/slendersmut
Summary: To be worthy of a god, you must prove yourself. Even if it means your eternal subjugation.





	Cracked

The trees close in.

Alex hangs, strung out, like flayed meat, skin naked to the elements. Across his shoulders, ribs, stomach and thighs sting the shocking pink of livid lashmarks. His mouth gapes, lips torn open, and his chin is coated in saliva. Intelligible words have long since left his repertoire, along with his focus.

Along with his will.

Even trapped within the confines of his broken body, Alex’s hands still grip with a furor, choking the life out of his cock with every slippery, yanking stroke. Below glistens a puddle of shimmering cum, mottled by the shadows of shifting leaves in the treetops high above. A thin string of his last emission maintains a tenuous connection between his body and the forest floor, thick as spider-silk and refusing to break even with each jerk of his tethered body. 

His cock is leaking and sore, all bulging vein and electric skin. No human should be capable of maintaining this for so long, for days on end, but his balls hang full and heavy, his cock angry and swollen and craving supernatural release. Alex is locked into an excruciating rhythm that rocks his body along with the tree branches: caress, stroke, caress, tug, increase the speed. Each time it’s the same, with each case of tender touch and caustic contact sending his very being hurtling over the edge to his death, slamming him head-first into the ground, and yet returning each time, undead and unsatisfied. 

Alex’s whimpers are drowned out in a fuzz of living static - always there, always watching - feeding along the fibres of his skin and sparking up the living nightmare that has become of his body. He’s more pieces than person now, with wounds left open to fester but no infection setting in. The pain stilled long ago, now achieving union with his very being, and with every jack and jolt the remains of Alex Kralie come a little closer to achieving the anti-nirvana.

Without warning, the wind changes. The rustling trees come to an abrupt standstill, and the slow arc of the moon becomes fixed, even in the solid reflection of Alex’s cum. Noise no longer permeates the fabric of the scene; the only sound to be heard is the guttural vocalisation of Alex’s desperate attempt to reach completion. The sound of fruitless endeavour.

In the distance, He rises. Like a liquid raised from the dead, His shape manifests entirely in shadow. The solid, skinny block of black is punched through only by the whites of the collar, neck, and that awful, blank face. Devoid of expression and devoid of empathy.

The Operator has come.

Alex’s head snaps downwards in obedience. He is not permitted to look, never permitted, and he knows this as surely as he knows this is where he wants to be more than any place in the world.

The Operator’s branching tendrils attack, hitting at the speed of dark, and Alex’s glasses are mercilessly whipped from his face. In pure reaction, Alex tries to grab for them with one hand, but screams when his palm is flogged. His whipped fingers claw around the glasses, but there’s no thought in his head, no meaningful thinking process beyond instinct, and he crushes the glasses in his fist like they’re paper.

The Operator does not need to command with words no more than Alex needs to speak to show submission. Alex follows the silent order like a robot, and crushes his glass-laden hand straight onto the rigid shaft of his cock.

“AGH- oh-”

Alex sobs openly, but he keeps his head bowed, and he works his cock anyway, even as the skin splits and his member bleeds. Not because the Operator bids this to be his fate, but because thinking is beyond Alex, beyond his frame of reference: an alien concept to the fucked-out corpse of his brain. He will do anything to please the unearthly whims of this monster.

His eyes drawn downwards, seeing only the throbbing, dismal colours of night mingled with the sheen of his own seed, Alex watches blood drip down into the cum-puddle as he grinds the glass into sand. Convulsions, spasms of the abdomen, pulse through his body, driving Alex to arch his long body into positions that only the tased should achieve. He’s blind without his glasses, but in his mind’s eye he sees the perpetual lines of His body, looming, impossibly long and unfathomably black. This is what drives him closer to the edge, even as the shards embed themselves into his veins, even as his cock is ground into silica and slices of skin. 

The Operator moves without sound or motion. He towers above Alex.

Unseeing.

Unmoving.

A god in the image of man.

Alex’s gooseflesh breaks like it’s a virus. The presence of Him is unbearable, and yet it’s all he wants, all he needs to be alive. He wants to break out of his obedience-made bonds and crawl over to the Operator, and kiss the smoke where his feet should be. He wants to strip himself of his flesh and present his skeleton to this being, ready to be exhumed and consumed at the same time. He wants to be cleansed of all thought but that of servitude to his god. 

The glass crunches. Alex begs silently, his hands dripping red, almost at his limit.

The Operator tilts its head, just a little. 

And the orgasm hits.

The seconds following the release are always the same. Further collection is added to the bloodying pool below - a worthy sacrifice - and Alex’s hands slap to the ground, foisting dirt into the crevices in his palms. Alex heaves in great gulps of air, as the instinct to breathe when his master is near is always forgotten.

The relief is spurious. By the time Alex lifts his head, the Operator melts back into the trees, becoming one with the forest. An eternally watching fixture seizing upon the mind of a man broken beyond repair.

And thus the cycle repeats. An endless, exulting act of devotion, occurring forever, like the infinite reflections of a mirror against a mirror.

A cracked man, worshipping a cracked god.


End file.
